


Honey, You're Familiar

by JustGettingBy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Presumed character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: An attack from the Avatar leaves Zuko with a gap of over two years in his memory.At least, that's what the crew on his ship tells him.Zuko winces. “Ah. ” His mind is shattered glass, all the pieces catching and throwing different beams of light.“Yes, Prince Zuko?”Zuko pulls his face into a blank mask and holds the pain deep in his core. “It’s nothing,” he says, willing that his voice doesn’t shake. “I’m having difficulties remembering what led up to this.”The officer frowns. “You don’t remember? The Avatar attacked us."
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 253
Kudos: 490
Collections: A:tla





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me yesterday: Okay, gotta focus on my original fiction  
> Me today: okay but one more Zukka fic first 
> 
> And yes—I’m back on my bullshit. I wrote a Sokka amnesia fic so now it’s Zuko’s turn 🤷🏻
> 
> Title is from Hozier's "From Eden"

Zuko wakes to a wave of pain. 

His stomach twists. His head pulses. Once more, he’s thrown into the past, into the days after his burn, the days he spent in the medical rooms, listening to healers fret over him while he swam in and out of consciousness. 

For a moment, a bolt of fear strikes his heart. He’s there again. He must be. Without thinking, his hand flies up to his face. 

And meets his skin. The scar is old, but it’s a scar at least. Not a fresh wound. He runs his fingers over the creased edges and feels nothing; it’s numb as always. 

“Don’t trouble yourself, Prince Zuko, you’re alright,” someone says. He feels a hand on his back, guiding him to sit up. “You’re okay.”

Zuko’s head reels. Something isn’t right. He cracks one eye open—in front of him, there’s an officer. One whose name he doesn’t know. 

Which is strange, he thinks, because judging by his surroundings they’re on his ship. In his room, even. Zuko might not be one to chat with the other men on board, but he’s also fairly certain he knows all their names. And he definitely knows all their faces, at the very least. 

Zuko’s head sends another wave of pain rolling through his body. As he winces, he brings his hand to his scalp. There’s no wound there. There’s not even a lump. Only smooth skin. He skims his fingers over his head, searching for damage where the pain burns brightest. But there’s nothing. Even prodding his skull makes no difference—all the way to his phoenix tail, his skin is unbroken. 

“What happened,” he says, his throat rough and dry. 

The officer says nothing for a moment; he only hands Zuko a water skin. “Drink,” he says. “Your health is important above all else.”

Zuko drinks like a dying man. The water eases the rawness in his throat. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been; it’s as if he hadn’t drunk in days. 

As he swallows, he studies the man. For an officer, he’s thin. There’s not much for muscle clinging to his wiry frame, which is unusual given the amount they all train. As for his face, there’s nothing remarkable about it in any way—his lips are thin, his cheekbones are sharp, his eyes are a dull bronze. He can’t be yet thirty, though Zuko’s never been much good with ages, especially when it comes to the officers. The uniforms paint them all the same. 

“Better?”

Zuko nods. He shifts on his mat. The robe he’s in is nicer than the one he remembers. Soft silk wraps across his chest, the dark red highlighting the paleness of his skin. 

“Do you remember what happened?”

Zuko thinks. At least, he tries to. It feels as if someone stuffed his head full of cotton—when he tries to picture what led up to it all, he sees only a stormy haze. “No,” he whispers. How can he not remember? Zuko frowns and focuses. He closes his eyes and lets the room fall away. What was he doing before this? 

The Avatar was there. Zuko knows that, at least. Something about a scroll of water bending heritage. And… pirates?

Zuko winces. “ _Ah._ ” His mind is shattered glass; all the pieces catching and throwing different beams of light. 

“Yes, Prince Zuko?”

Zuko pulls his face into a blank mask and holds the pain deep in his core. “It’s nothing,” he says, willing that his voice doesn’t shake. “I’m having difficulties remembering what led up to this.”

The officer frowns. “You don’t remember? The Avatar attacked us. Again.” 

Zuko frowns. Because, no, he definitely doesn’t remember that. Worse, he doesn’t even remember the Avatar attacking them the first time. 

The officer shakes his head. “This isn’t good. I should get the Lieutenant.” 

Zuko nods curtly. “That would be best.” He shifts again on his bed. How could his memory have fragmented like this? He’s never heard of anything like this before. 

“Get Uncle, too,” he orders the officer. 

The officer tenses. After a beat, he deflates—his mouth falls into a frown, his shoulders slump forward, his eyebrows stitch together. In the room, the hum of the engine echoes. 

“What,” Zuko spits. His hand tenses around his blanket. 

“Prince Zuko,” the officer says, his voice wrought with concern. “You truly don’t know?”

“Would I be asking you if I did?” Sometimes, Zuko doubts the competence of his crew. Generally, they’re fit. But at other times…

“Forgive me.” The officer bows. As he swallows, his throat bobs against the red collar of his uniform. “It’s just, Prince Zuko, you appear to have lost more than a few days.” 

“Tell me.” Zuko locks his muscles in place. He refuses to flinch.

“Prince Zuko,” the man says, his voice low like a dying candle. “General Iroh passed over two years ago.”

* * *

The Avatar killed Uncle. 

Zuko turns that thought over in his head as he stares out over the choppy sea. He grinds his back molars together and grips the railing tight. 

The Avatar killed Uncle. 

In the distance, near the skiffs of land on the horizon that his crew has informed him is the Southern Earth Kingdom, storm clouds gather. 

The Avatar killed Uncle. 

He might not remember his crew, but they certainly remember him. They know him well enough to give him space now. No one dares come near. 

His old crew, too, is dead by the Avatar’s hand. He bonded with the ocean spirit and dragged Zuko’s men to the depths of the sea without mercy. None of them had even carried personal vendettas against the Avatar; he murdered them all the same. 

The thought of it all sits like a boulder in the pit of Zuko’s soul. He’s a husk. He burns from the inside out. 

How has he let the Avatar escape him so many times? 

In truth, Zuko hadn’t hated him. Not truly. Not at first. He wanted to capture him. He wanted to secure victory for the Fire Nation. He wanted his father to see what he’d done. He wanted to curry favour. 

All the reasons sound stupid now. They curl like ashes in Zuko’s mind. 

Now, it’s nothing but personal.

The image of Uncle laughing deeply as he drinks his tea bites at the edge of Zuko’s memory. 

He hisses—he lets out a stream of heat and noise and punches forward, fire whipping from his fist. 

And he carries on like this. He strikes and kicks against his invisible opponent. It’ll be the Avatar, soon, on the other end of his flame. Zuko swears it. 

The Avatar might look like a child, but he isn’t one. He only wears a child’s face. Behind those grey eyes are dark spirits. Dark spirits that have taken everything from Zuko. 

Zuko punches forward again. He works until the sun sinks low and his muscles shake under his weight. He pushes on until he can scarcely stand on his feet. He welcomes the burn. 

His whole, after all, is fire and ashes. What will be the next thing the Avatar will raze?

* * *

The same officer that was with Zuko when he woke—Toru, his name is—comes to speak to him as he eats dinner alone. 

He explains, in more detail, what happened. They were in Southern Waters once again. It seems the Avatar likes to spend time with the Water Tribe. 

The plan, Toru tells him, had been iron-clad. They’d gone in silently. They shouldn’t have been noticed. They should’ve captured him and slipped out without being noticed once more. 

But, of course, it couldn’t have been that easy. The Avatar and his waterbender attacked them. They didn’t hold back. 

“I don’t know what he did to you,” Toru says. “We thought he only knocked you unconscious. But…” Toru hesitates. “Well, I don’t want to speculate.”

“What,” Zuko bites. “Tell me.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Toru bows. “I can’t say anything with certainty. I don’t know much where the spirits are concerned. But given that he knocked you unconscious, it’s entirely possible he might’ve done something else to your mind then, too.”

Zuko swears. Toru’s probably right. What else could have done this? It makes sense, too, why Zuko couldn’t see any wound. 

“Of course, that’s just our best guess for now. I’m sure we’ll find a way, Your Highness, to get your memories back.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Zuko says. He throws back his glass of sake—which at least he’s allowed to have now. Without Uncle, there’s truly no one to tell him what to do. 

Zuko frowns at that thought. Because there’s also no one to guide him—it’s up to him to figure out this mess. 

“What were my orders before the attack?”

“In the event of a loss, you ordered us to lay low,” Toru says. His voice is smooth, like fine silk. “Which we have done. This keeps us safe from the Avatar until we can regroup.”

Zuko taps his fingers against his chin. “I see.”

“The Avatar might be a difficult creature to capture, but it’s an easy one to track,” says Toru. “Every peasant and fisher and trader is all too willing to spill their sighting stories.”

Zuko nods. 

“The only difficulty is that they’ve grown to like him, over the years. They want to watch the Fire Nation fall.” His voice churns with hate and, for the first time, Zuko wonders if Toru has as many personal reasons to hate the Avatar as he does. “They always report to it when they see us. We have to play the game of stealth.”

Which isn’t an easy one for Zuko. He’s well aware of how he looks. “We’ll stay quiet a while longer,” Zuko orders him with more confidence than he has. “We’ll discuss it more in the morning. I need to clear my head.”

“Of course.” Toru bows and leaves without another word. 

Zuko sits in his room. Again, the hum of the engine sounds faint, echoing off the walls. Waves rock the ship side to side in a familiar motion. For the past three years, this is the closest place Zuko’s known to a home. 

And now it’s hollow and empty too. Zuko wonders if there’s any place for him in this world. Without Uncle, it doesn’t feel like there is. 

If that place is out there, he hasn’t found it yet. 

* * *

As Zuko readies himself for bed, he has to confront what he’s avoided all day—the mirror.

He didn’t want to look in glass, be it dull or polished. But now it’s unavoidable. Even if he didn’t look, he’d just be postponing the inevitable for the morning. At least now he has the night to get used to it. 

The first thing he looks at in his reflection is his scar. Back when he’d first been injured, the healers said to him that sometimes scars fade with time. What was once red and angry could fade to soft bumps the same colour as the rest of his skin. 

Zuko bites his lip as he stares at himself. 

They had said only sometimes. He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. 

Zuko wonders if it matters, anyway. Until he captures the Avatar, he’s at sea anyway. He accepted long ago that he wouldn’t have normal teenage years. It’s not like he has time for a relationship. Not that anyone would want him. No—his appearance is the worst of his worries. 

And, all things considered, he doesn’t look that much different. His phoenix tail is longer than before. He’s taller, too, but he noticed that the first time he stood up. His cheekbones are more defined; they’re prominent on his face. And, when he runs his hand over his jaw, he thinks he can feel some stubble starting to form. 

He’s older, for sure. He still looks like himself. Zuko squints and looks closer—there’s something else too, something that he can’t quite place…

His heart drops into his stomach. The realization snaps into place. He tears his face away from the mirror. How hadn’t he noticed it immediately? 

Zuko storms to the wall and grabs his Dao swords. He should sleep, he knows. Mornings on the ship always come much too early. But he won’t sleep. Not like this. He needs to clear his head. 

Zuko bends his knees and sinks low into a fighting stance. He pushes the thought of his image out of his mind. 

When Zuko was young, so many people had told him what he just saw. But, with the years between them, it was hard to see it for what it was. Zuko’s face was still round with childhood then. 

But now Zuko is eighteen. He’s grown. 

And, like everyone at the palace had always told him, he’s the spitting image of his father. 

* * *

When Zuko finally dresses for bed, he finds another scar. This one is on his chest. It’s healed better than the one on his face, but as he skims his finger on the edge of it, he can’t help but think the pain was just as bright. If not moreso. 

The body, he thinks, has a memory too. 

As he crawls onto his mat and pulls the blanket over himself, he wonders where he got the injury on his chest. 

Maybe the Avatar gave him that, too. 

* * *

As Zuko drifts off into a fitful sleep, a voice whispers to him in the haze of his mind.

“Zuko,” the voice says. It’s a man, he thinks. He sounds warm. Comforting. “Hold on, okay? Hold on to this. Remember me.”

Zuko rolls over in his bed, his mind dark and clouded with thunderheads. 

“I love you, Zuko, okay? Remember that.”

Zuko reaches for the voice. There is something that should come after that—he needs to reply. 

But the answer slips out of Zuko’s grip and fades back into the haze.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, when Zuko dresses, he realizes the differences he hadn’t noticed the night before. He chalks it up to the brain fog of being out. His room is, more or less, how he remembered it. But it’s not exactly the same. Things have shifted around. He doesn’t recognize all his clothing. Some of his possessions are missing—the most notable being his Blue Spirit mask. 

Zuko doesn’t dwell on it too much. It’s natural, he supposes. There must be more changes than he remembers. 

And his room is really the least of his worries. 

Zuko is still hollow inside. Instead of a solid core, he’s empty all the way down. 

He ties back his hair and dons his armour, numb. 

When he’d woken, for a brief and glorious moment, he was certain it was all a nightmare. He was certain that he’d hear Uncle’s rolling laugh echoing through the hallways. 

But the sliver of the moment where it was all only a dream shattered. This is, in fact, real. There’s no escaping it. Zuko can only face it head-on. 

The Avatar must go down. 

* * *

When he finally makes his way above deck for breakfast, the crew still avoids his gaze. He prefers it this way. And, he thinks, he must not be close to this new crew of his in the slightest if they all avoid him like this. What would be the point in making the effort now?

“Prince Zuko! Good to see you,” says Toru, thrusting a cup of tea into Zuko’s hand. 

Zuko amends his previous statement—he must not have been close to any of them except for Toru. He’s the only one making an effort at the moment. Zuko sips the tea he gave him; it’s bitter and burnt on his tongue. His anger boils deep in his chest. Nothing is right, not even his morning cup of tea. 

“Any updates,” Zuko snips. 

Toru shakes his head. “No sightings, Your Highness. We’ll update you as soon as we can, of course.”

Zuko nods curtly. He feels that he should command them to do something more; to direct his crew in some way, but he’s at a loss. It’s hard to piece it together when he’s working with such a gap. All the important information is beyond his grasp. 

“We’re looking for… unusual ways to find information on the Avatar,” Toru continues, “but nothing’s turned out yet. But I wouldn’t worry, Your Highness. I have a feeling things will be more clear when our prisoner wakes.”

Zuko swallows the tea in a lump. Around the cup, his grip tightens. “Prisoner?” 

Toru hesitates. He doesn’t hold himself like much of an officer; he doesn’t have discipline. “I forgot, Your Highness. My sincerest apologies.”

Zuko pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me.” Was his crew incompetent? He should’ve been updated on that immediately—didn’t Toru realize that he wouldn’t have remembered this essential information? 

“We might’ve had to retreat at the South Pole.” Toru shifts. He leans against the railing of the ship and looks out over the sea. In the distance, a finch-gull calls. “But it wasn’t a total loss. I apologize, Your Highness, for not telling you earlier. There was just so much going on yesterday.”

Toru clears his throat. “We captured two Water Tribe men. They got caught up in the Avatar’s attack—just shows you how much that thing values humanity. It was willing to sacrifice two of its own just to take us down. If that’s how it treats those on its side, imagine what it’s capable of doing to its enemies.”

A trickle of a chill runs down Zuko’s spine. The Avatar had been dangerous when they’d met in the past. But it seems that in the missing time he—it—only grew stronger and more callous. What would it do to see Zuko and the Fire Nation fell? 

“The men are below deck, in the prison cell.”

“Good.” Zuko cracks his knuckles. He’ll have to interrogate them. 

“The one man isn’t speaking and the other isn’t yet conscious. But I don’t think we should lose hope yet.”

Zuko lets out a grunt of disapproval. What’s the point in holding prisoners if they have no useful information? The Avatar hasn’t yet found them—it’s clearly not interested in bargaining for them back. 

“I don’t see the use.” 

“Your Highness.” Toru turns. Behind him, the sun glows bright and hot. He smiles, flashing his white teeth. “I think you will—the unconscious man is the Avatar’s companion.”

* * *

Zuko steels himself before descending below deck to the prison cell. He refuses to give anything away to them—not even a twitch of his muscles or a line in his face. 

It’s lucky, he thinks, that they were able to get a hold of anyone, even if it is only the non-bender and another random Water Tribe man. The Avatar must be getting careless. Reckless. Zuko’s never been much of one for strategy, but a foggy notion of a plan starts to string together in his head. Maybe they can play the Avatar’s arrogance. Goad him out; force him to make a mistake. He’ll have to talk it over with the Lieutenant—hopefully he’ll have a better mind for a plan.

At any rate, Zuko needs to talk to the Water Tribe man. Toru tried to dissuade him from coming down; he said it wasn’t productive. It might not be. But Zuko needs to see them anyway. Maybe he can glean something that the others missed. 

He descends the stairs, his footfall heavy on the metal. Zuko swallows. He’s never done this before, not really. But he’s in charge now. He’ll have to do this sooner or later, and he figures it might as well be sooner. 

As he moves deeper into the guts of the steamship, more and more light fades away. A dim, red glow illuminates the metal hallways of the hull; heavy smoke from the engines and the tobacco the other men smoke hangs in the air. 

Zuko strides forward, walking with all the authority he knows he has, even if he doesn’t feel as confident as he’s trying to look. These men… they’re part of the reason Uncle is gone. Even if they didn’t directly contribute to it, they’ve haven’t dared to defy the Avatar, either. He wonders how some could be so wrong; how they could turn away the gift the Fire Nation offered them. They could be civilized and advanced. Instead, they turned to the old and outdated ways of the Avatar. 

Zuko clenched his jaw and reached for the key on his belt. He could do this, he told himself. He  _ would  _ do this. Where his crew had failed, Zuko would succeed. He’d get the prisoner to talk. He couldn’t refuse the prince of the Fire Nation. 

With a shove of effort, he slides open the door to the prison cell and steps inside. If Zuko had thought the hallway was dark; it was nearly black inside here. The only light came from a single candle, flickering on the wall, almost burnt to the end. When it runs down, it won’t be replaced. 

Zuko steps in and stares at the bars. It’s hard to make out who’s there in the dark—in the far corner lays a lump wrapped in a blanket. That must be the Avatar’s companion, though it’s hard to tell. 

Next to the unconscious man, someone is seated, whispering soft words that sound like something between a song and prayer. 

“Stop that,” Zuko orders. “Face me.” 

The figure shifts. The man moves into the low light, his face thatched with long shadows from the bars of the cell. “Zuko,” he says, his voice low and deep and warm. 

“ _ Prince _ Zuko,” he spits back. Zuko studies his face. The man’s hair is long and shaggy. A beard clings to his long face. And his ocean-blue eyes are studying Zuko right back. 

The man frowns—there’s an old and deep sort of sadness in his eyes. Someone who has lost and lost again. “Zuko,” he repeats, “what did they do to you, son?”

“Don’t call me that!” He holds himself back from lashing out with a torrent of fire. He’d get nowhere hurting the prisoner in a bout of rage. “Who do you think you are?”

The man stands. He’s tall, Zuko realizes. And, more than that, the idiot has no fear. He leans against the bars, his face only inches away from Zuko’s—closer than anyone would dare stand near Zuko, even members of his own army. 

And he meets Zuko’s gaze directly. Intently. “Do you remember anything about me?” he asks. His voice is warm. Too warm. It nudges something in Zuko’s mind; it teases the edge of his brain like an itch he can’t scratch. 

Zuko steps back. His heart hammers. Had it always been so warm in here? “Remember who you’re talking to,” Zuko says, his voice tinged with a growl. 

The man dips his head into a half-bow. “Of course.”

“What game are you playing?” Zuko crosses his arms. He doesn’t break eye contact, despite how desperately he wants to. 

“None,” the man says plainly.

Zuko huffs. He can see why the crew had such difficulty. The man isn’t being straight up defiant—he’s making no sense at all. Zuko’s not sure if that’s better or worse. 

“Where is the Avatar?” he demands. 

The man takes a deep breath. “My name is Hakoda. Do you know that?”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “Why would I know that?”

“Just asking.”

“Answer my question.”

“I don’t know where Aang is,” the man—Hakoda—says. He wraps his hand around the bar of his cell. “But I can’t imagine he’s far away. He’ll be here soon.”

Zuko laughs. He really does—even though it might be strained. “You think the Avatar is coming for you?”

“Of course.” 

Zuko shakes his head. How could he be so ignorant? “The Avatar abandoned you here. It’s in your best interest to share what you know.” 

“I already did. The last time I saw Aang was in the south. He’ll be here soon.” 

Zuko lets out a noise of frustration. This isn’t going anywhere. He wants to kick something, but there’s nothing here that isn’t metal and he doesn’t need to break his toe. Whatever—if the prisoner is delusional, he can keep believing that the Avatar will come for him. He can waste away in the cell believing that. 

“If you’re not going to cooperate, then I’ll be back tomorrow.” In some ways, Zuko had been looking for a fight. Someone to yell at until his throat went hoarse. He needs someone to aim his pent-up anger at. And the prisoner is refusing to be that person. Zuko turns on his heel and reaches for the door. 

“Wait!”

Zuko narrows his eyes.  _ Finally.  _ That’s a rise. 

“We need more water, at the very least. We haven’t been getting enough.”

Zuko frowns. He doesn’t want them dead. As much as the mere sight of those ratty blue clothes makes him burn with rage, they’re no use to him that way. 

“For my son, if not for me.”

“Your son?” Zuko’s eyes dart toward the unconscious form that’s still obscured by the shadows. 

Hakoda nods. “Please. He’s not well.” 

He didn’t see the resemblance at first. They don’t look too much alike—at least, from Zuko’s memory they don’t. He hadn’t gotten much of a clear look at the water tribe boy. The Avatar and the waterbender always pulled away his attention. 

But knowing that, now, he thinks he sees some similarities. The nose. The eyes. The warm voice. 

“Fine.” Zuko tenses. “I’ll send someone down.”

As he goes to close the door to the room, the man clears his throat once more. “Thank you. Zuko. Prince Zuko. You’re a good man.”

Zuko stills. What did he mean by that? He flexes his hands against the metal. 

“I know you’ll do the right thing, in the end.” 

Zuko slams the door shut. He grits his teeth—how dare the prisoner speak to him like that? Has he no sense of decorum? Zuko shifts and rotates his shoulders. 

Nothing about it all adds up. 

There’s something he’s missing, he thinks. Something big. 

And he needs to figure out what it is. 


	3. Chapter 3

The meeting with the prisoner hangs over Zuko’s head for the rest of the day like a stormcloud. He tries to push away the thought, but the darkness and rain block out his thoughts. What was it about that man? How did he get under Zuko’s skin so easily? 

Zuko shakes his head as he runs through another kata on the deck of the ship. He pushes his arm forward, working his muscles from his shoulder blade, to his elbow, to his wrist. A stream of pale fire bursts forward as he grunts with the effort, but it’s nowhere near as hot or large of a flame as he’d hope. 

_ Come on. _ Zuko huffs in frustration. He can’t even get this right, either. There’s something wrong with his form, he knows. There’s a movement, however slight, that’s he missing. He can try it again and turn his foot more to the left, or he can flatten his palm a moment earlier, but he doubts any of those changes will result in success. None of the adjustments he’s made so far have worked. Why would this be any different?

More than anything, he wants Uncle. Uncle would reach up and adjust his arms, or tell him to lower his stance, or remind him to straighten his back. Without Uncle’s guidance, the forms seem impossibly difficult. And his flame, too, is weak and dying. 

Zuko runs through the kata again, without flames this time. The crew can’t see his failure--they’ll think him weak. He doesn’t know how much they value his command as it is and he doesn’t need to give them any reason to think he’s not fit to lead them. 

Because he  _ is  _ fit to lead them. He’s the prince. They have to listen to him, no matter what. He is royalty. He might be injured, he might be missing memories, but that doesn’t make him any less of an authority on this vessel. 

Right? 

Zuko shakes his head as he sinks into a lunge. 

“Prince Zuko?” 

He glances over his shoulder. It’s the new Lieutenant--a stocky man name Sano with a clipped beard--standing next to Toru. Toru might’ve only had a few inches over Zuko, but next to Sano his height and slenderness are all the more pronounced. 

“What is it?” Zuko asks, annoyed at being interrupted. 

“We’ve gotten word from a scout, Your Highness,” Sano says with a bow. “There’s been a sighting of the Avatar in Diàoyú Village--that’s less than half a day from here, by water. Faster, if the Avatar has his beast.”

_ Fuck. _ Zuko clenches his fist. Maybe the prisoner hadn’t been lying, then. Maybe the Avatar is really coming for the Water Tribe men. 

Or, maybe he--maybe it--is only after Zuko. Who could say? The Avatar clearly isn’t human; no one could understand its thoughts. 

“The scout said the Avatar is angry, angry beyond belief.” Toru shakes his head. “We can’t risk staying here.”

He’s right, Zuko supposes. It’d be foolish to stay here when they know that someone who is actively trying to  _ kill them _ is lurking in a town not far off. But running and hiding won’t capture the Avatar. “We are not cowards.”

“Of course not, Your Highness.” The Lieutenant's pinched face flashes with nerves. “I’, merely suggesting a temporary… temporary regrouping. The crew is still exhausted from the last attack. You’re injured. The prisoners are still on board. It’d be foolish to attempt anything before we regroup.”

“Fine.” Zuko crosses his arms. “What do you suggest?”

“There’s an island, not far away,” Toru says, “called Zōnglǘ Shù. It’s just a small thing--hardly more than a skiff of sand. But it has a sheltered bay. Plenty of resources.”

Zuko pauses. For now, that’s the best they can ask for. “Fine. Chart a course for Zōnglǘ Shù.”

Both Lieutenant Sano and Toru bow. “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

As they turn and walk away, Zuko thinks he sees the flash of a smirk on Toru’s face. The man’s thin lips part, whispering something that Zuko can’t hear. 

Zuko stands on the deck, alone. His skin prickles. 

He shrugs it off. He’s just being paranoid, he thinks. His grief is fresh and his head is sore and he’s imagining things that aren’t really there. 

That’s the only way any of it makes sense. 

* * *

They arrive in Zōnglǘ Shù just before sunset. 

Toru was right. It is perfect, strategically speaking. The bay is sheltered by a break of rocks not far out to sea and a small hill to the East. Aside from that, there’s not much to the island. Zuko suspects he could walk the entire perimeter in an afternoon. Past the white sand of the beach, the forest is thick with palms and ferns and dense plants and deep, rich soil that fills Zuko’s nose. 

Under different circumstances, he might’ve almost enjoyed it. This place vaguely reminds him of Ember Island—the air smells of salt and tropical flowers, the breeze is soft and warm, the sunset turns the water pink. 

“This place was used as a Fire Nation outpost at the start of the war,” the Lieutenant tells Zuko as they dock. “It’s been vacant for a while—the location isn’t as strategic anymore—but the facilities remain. Might be in need of a good cleaning, though.”

“Then see it gets cleaned.” Zuko isn’t in the mood for any banter at the moment. Does he need to solve all their problems? 

“Of course, of course.” Lieutenant Sano gestures to some of the crew, who are busy unloading supplies from the ship. It’s clear they’re expecting to spend more than just one night here. If there are buildings here already, and a steady supply of fresh water and fruits to complement the food they’ve brought, they could easily spend a decent chunk of time here. They won’t have to face the Avatar anytime soon. 

Part of Zuko welcomes that. When he thinks of the Avatar, he thinks of that scowl and those glowing eyes. If the Avatar looked like that, it must’ve only grown more terrifying in the past years. 

But part of Zuko hates that he’s thinking of avoiding his responsibilities, too. He’s been gone so, so long. What will Caldera look like when he finally sees it? He was so young when he left. Part of it, too, is that the palace was so familiar when he left. It was all he’d ever known. Those walls and columns, those deep reds, the endless streams of flames. 

Zuko had heard the old crew say once that, after you leave home, it’s never really there anymore. At the time, he resented that. 

But now he thinks he understands. 

When he does get back—and he will get back—everything will have changed. He knew there were plans for repairs and expansions and redecoration. But that’s only the building. The people, he thinks, will be entirely different. Five years older, at least. Some will have left. There’ll be new courtiers and advisors and, well, everything. Nothing can be the same. 

The home he left behind is gone. Time has claimed it, as time claims all things. 

Zuko grips the railing and stares out at the sun, setting in a pool of red and gold. Once, when he was young, Lu Ten told him that if you see the sunset at the right time from the right angle, a green light flashes across the horizon the moment the sun dips under that unreachable line. 

Zuko squints and tries to catch it. 

He misses, as he always does. 

Next to him, Sano clears his throat. “If that’s all, Your Highness, I better get to work. I’ll send someone for you when your room is ready.”

Zuko nods, but as Lieutenant Sano walks away, he finds a question bubbling up before he can think twice. “And what of the prisoners?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The prisoners. Will they stay on the ship?”

“No, Your Highness. Officer Ito is preparing the cells. Like everything else here, they’re old, but they should hold well enough.”

Zuko pauses. “Cells, as in two?”

“Of course.”

“Keep them together.” As Zuko says it, he wonders why it even matters. It shouldn’t make a difference, one way or another. But somehow, it does.

Sano hesitates, but he doesn’t defy Zuko. Few have dared to defy him. Banished as he is, he’s still the prince. “Certainly.”

Even though he agreed, Zuko can’t help but justify himself. “It’s easier if the man looks after his son. Our men don't need to waste their time playing healer” 

That’s the only reason; Zuko is sure that’s the only reason. Well, and to keep the unconscious man alive so he can question him. The thought of dumping a body in an empty cell just… Zuko shudders. He’s not that cruel. He’s not.

As Sano leaves, Zuko stares out to the sea. Here, the water is calm. There are no whitecaps like there are on the high seas or even any harsh wave breaks. In the bay, the water is a placid mirror. It might even be nice for swimming, if Zuko cared about that sort of thing still. But he doesn’t. He hasn’t since he was a child. 

Zuko stays on the deck of the ship for hours. He stays there until the warm breeze turns cool. He stays there until the last colours of the sunset fall from the sky. He stays until the darkness comes and brings the stars with it. 

He cranes his head upward and searches for patterns in them. Both his uncle and his mom had once told him stories of the sky at night. He wishes he paid more attention—he wishes he could remember them all, that he could recount every word they told him. 

A crick starts to form in at the base of his skull from how long he’s stared upward. Zuko doesn’t mind. The night, he’s learned in his years at sea, isn’t black; it’s full of light if you know where to look. 

* * *

The room they’ve prepared for Zuko is small but clean. It’s as good as he could’ve hoped for—a soft cot, no mould, and a small window on the far wall that looks out at the ocean and the stars. 

As Zuko drifts off, he can’t get his mind off the ocean. It’s as if the water cast a fishhook into his gut and the surf keeps trying to reel him back in. 

He wipes a layer of sweat off his forehead and rolls to his side. 

His thoughts are turbid—whirlpools and eddies of thoughts and face and colours and sounds. Nothing is clear. Each time he swims toward clarity, the waves crash once more. 

He swims and swims until his arms and legs ache with exhaustion, but the undercurrent yanks him adrift once more. 

Zuko lets the wild and water claim him. 

But he doesn’t drown. 

He floats. 

His limbs are weightless. From where he is, the night sky domes overhead. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, but not by his own accord—his mouth moves on its own. 

“I’ve heard legends about this, but I didn’t think it was real.” 

Zuko sits up. He’s not in the water anymore. He’s on the wood of a catamaran. 

“Look,” says the voice, the one he can’t place. 

Zuko listens anyway. He leans over the side of the boat. They’re not sailing on water; they’re gliding over a sea of stars. Zuko reaches forward to capture the stardust in his hand. When he reaches the light, the stars ripple out from around his fingers.

“It’s rare. I never thought I’d see it,” says the voice. The voice is warm and deep and familiar like an old book. “It only happens after a storm when the sea is calm, and only on nights without a moon.” 

“Oh?”

“Sailing through the sky. There’s a myth about it—about a warrior, who lived a thousand years ago. When the love of his life died, the spirits saw how much he was hurting, so they took his lover and placed his body in the stars, so that the warrior always would see it, and know that he wasn’t alone.

“But it wasn’t enough for the warrior. The stars were too far away. So he took his boat and sailed alone into the sky until he could hold his love in his arms again. The spirits told him it was a one-way trip. He told the spirits he didn’t care. 

“And it was a one-way trip. And, still, he didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around his love and became starlight too. You can see it. There—” a finger guides Zuko’s gaze to a cluster of stars high in the South West of the sky— “there they are.” 

The stars tangle together in an ancient and cryptic dance that Zuko can’t decipher. Maybe it’s better this way. If he could understand the way they weaved together, he couldn’t lose himself in their beauty. 

Like this, Zuko realizes how small he is. He’s one person. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of stars drip across the sky, like flecks of painted staining the floorboards below a fresh masterpiece. 

“My mom said they were always there,” the voice says. “The stars, I mean. She said they never went anywhere, they’re only ever hidden by the sun or clouds or even the moonlight.” 

Zuko hums in agreement. 

“I dunno if it’s true, but I’ve always liked the idea, you know? That there’s some constant, something always there, even if you can’t tell. Made me feel less alone when things were tough.”

Again, Zuko feels words forming in his palate. “You’re never alone.” Still looking at the stars, Zuko reaches and finds a rough and calloused hand. “I hope you know that.”

Zuko turns his head to see who is next to him. 

But as he does, the world flutters and shifts and falls away like snow melting on a hot spring day. 

* * *

Zuko wakes with a start, the scene playing on a loop in his head. Early sunlight pours in through the window and birds twitter away in the palms. 

With his heart pounding, he looks down at his empty hand. It was only a dream, he knows. The stress must be getting to him.

Still. The warmth of the other palm in his felt so real. Even now, Zuko’s hand feels cold in its absence. 


	4. Chapter 4

Realistically, Zuko could’ve squeezed in another hour of sleep—if not two—if he’d been able to roll over and drift off once again. But he couldn’t sleep, not after that dream, not with the way his heart thundered, not with the way his breath caught in his lungs. 

Instead, he shuffles to his window and leans against the frame.  _ Breathe in. Breathe out.  _ Soft beams of the sun beat against his skin, stoking his inner flame. Ocean breeze washes over him, too, carrying salt and florals on its tails. Even still, it does little to calm the chaos climbing inside of him. Zuko can’t remember the last time he felt like this—it’s as if there’s a sparrow-cat in his chest, clawing to get out. 

He rubs his face and, to his surprise, his fingers meet prickly stubble that clings along his jaw. It’s not much, granted, but it’s definitely there.  _ Huh. _ When he reaches up to his scalp, spikes of new hair growth prick his fingers too. At least that Zuko is used to shaving. His face is another story…

He’s seen Uncle do it before; he’d move his hands in steady strokes, carving the shape of his beard. 

But the thought of a blade that close to his throat? Zuko’s not a fan. 

But he’ll have to learn sometime. 

With a sigh, Zuko turns to the trunk of his things that his crew brought in. Sorting through it is strange: these are his things and not his things. The robes, the items, they’re all the things he’d need, but somehow they don’t feel like his. 

Zuko supposes that’s only natural. What else would he expect?

Finally, he fishes out a small kit with a blade, shaving powder, and a compact mirror. 

He sets up in the beam of light that drifts through the window and strikes the dark wooden floor. The bucket of water the crew brought up last night is tepid now—Zuko could warm it, if he wanted. Or, more accurately, Uncle could’ve warmed a bucket like this. Zuko doubts he can without setting the whole thing ablaze. 

There’s nothing more he can do. He sits and crosses his legs, peering at himself in the tiny mirror. It’s only big enough to show him a quarter of his face at a time. 

_ Here goes nothing, _ Zuko thinks as he unrolls the kit in front of him. How hard can it be?

* * *

An hour later, Zuko trudges up the hill on the East side of the island, his cheek stinging in the wind. Carefully, he presses a finger against the spot and starts with the sting.  _ Damn it anyway.  _ The last thing he needed was to nick himself, but he’d done so anyway. From what he remembers of Uncle and the other men, the cuts usually healed and disappeared quickly, but still. That stupid red mark just shows how young he is, mentally. Why would the men trust someone who couldn’t even shave with a blade? They must all think him incapable of wielding one. 

He’d just have to avoid them again today, which wouldn’t be difficult. They’d all been mostly staying clear. 

Zuko sighs again as he climbs onward, up the pitch of the hill. Hopefully, there’ll be a clearing at the top—Uncle always taught him that it was best to mediate as close to the sun as possible. 

At that, Zuko shakes his head. That train of thought will get him nowhere. He needs to stop thinking about Uncle. He needs to push that ache aside. He needs—

—he needs more comfortable boots. His left heel protests each step he takes forward, up the hill. Which doesn’t make sense, really. The fabric doesn’t feel like it’s properly broken in and maybe a half size too small on top of everything. How could his boots not be right? Every single person fighting for the Fire Nation knows the importance of well-fitting equipment. How stupid would it be to lose a man because of a too heavy sword? Or a leaky water skin? Or boots that blistered one's feet? It’s such a small thing, but they can’t afford small mistakes. Blisters could slow him down. 

Zuko swears and veers off the path up the hill, into the thick jungle. There’s a rock ahead that overlooks the ocean. He can sit. He might not have anything to stop the chafing, but at least he can check the damage. He even thinks he remembers an officer talking about lining his shoes with smooth leaves, once, when he was lost. 

He sinks onto the rock and stares out at the water. Soft waves lap at the brown-sugar sand and, in the harbour, his ship sits empty, just waiting for the crew to come back and set off once again. But if they’re going to set off once more, they’ll need a plan. And, in all honesty, Zuko’s not sure he can come up with one. 

Instead of worrying about the future, he eases his boot off his foot. When the fabric comes away, he’s not surprised to see his heel is red and raw, but at least no blister has popped up yet. 

He’s never been much of one for healing, and especially not with limited supplies. Is there any way to fix this? Zuko frowns—it might be best to turn around and get back to his room. It’s not the same, but he can mediate there and fix his heel, which is as much as he can hope for at the moment 

As he starts to ease the stubborn boot back onto his foot, voices drift through the trees. He pauses. Zuko holds still, barely even drawing a breath. 

“—been the longest week of my life, I swear,” one says. 

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” says another. Zuko recognizes the timber of this one—it’s Lieutenant Sano. 

“For you, maybe not. The rest of us are just sitting around.” 

Zuko strains to hear better, but it’s hard to make anything out clearly with the calls of finch-gulls and the rustling of the palms in the wind. He doesn’t know that first voice, he’s fairly sure. 

Zuko also knows how a monarch should act. To rule a people, one must have a certain decorum. One must act in a way that shows strength and power. 

Zuko doesn’t do that now. He ducks behind the rock instead and flattens himself against the side, out of view of the path. Right now, he really doesn’t feel like explaining to them what he’s doing out here so early or why his boot is bothering him or why, of all things, that he can’t sleep. 

“Be patient, Yami. A few more days.”

_ Yami.  _ That name is vaguely familiar. A crew member, Zuko remembers. The one with the short hair. 

Yami lets out a sharp laugh. “A few more days—it sounds good when you put it that way, doesn’t it?”

“Mhmm. A few days is nothing compared to what's ahead.”

As the two talk, their voices get louder and the noise of their boots against the packed dirt fills Zuko’s ears. They’re close. And they’re coming down the hill, back to the settlement. Had they been meditating too? Zuko never knew any of his old crew to care about that sort of thing. 

“Still doesn’t change the fact my arms ache from all that grunt work,” Yami says. “I’m really not cut out for all this.”

“That may be, but you’re doing a great honour for our nation. Agni will return our efforts tenfold.”

“Mhmm.” Yami pauses. “May the flame burn eternal.” 

_ What?  _ They’re close by now, so Zuko doubts he’s missing hearing anything. He turns his head and cocks his right ear in their direction. Why is Yami on this crew? If the Avatar is that much of a threat, Zuko thinks he’d take it more seriously. And what was that last thing he said?

“May the flame burn eternal,” Sano replies, his voice level and somber. 

And, with that, the men fall silent and continue their way down the path. If they say anything more on the subject, Zuko doesn't hear it. 

_ What was that about?  _ He huffs and stares up at the brightening sky. Nothing makes sense, not anymore. 

In some ways, he wonders if anything ever did. 

* * *

After a breakfast of mango and dried fish, after Zuko bandages his heel, and after he dons his heavy layers of armour despite the stifling heat, he sits in the meeting with his crew. 

The building, like everything on the island, is old and the ceiling beams in one corner look dangerously close to collapsing, but the table in the centre of the room is large enough to comfortably fit a dozen men and the large map that Sano’s laid across the centre. 

Now, Zuko realizes that Zōnglǘ Shù is much closer to the Fire Nation than he originally thought. Hadn’t they just been in Southern waters a few days ago? When he tries to piece together the gap in his memory and how many days he lost, his brain burns raw and sharp. 

“So,” Sano says, apparently unaware that Zuko’s attention isn’t focused. “The last report from our scouts gave us significant intel on the Avatar. Apparently, it was spotted here—” he taps against a cluster of islands somewhere between the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom— “not more than a few days from us.”

“It’s better than before,” Toru counters. “It’s going in the opposite direction of us now. We’ve thrown it off our scent.”

Sano nods curtly. “For now, yes. But as it gets farther away, it’ll also be more difficult for us to capture it.”

Under his armour, Zuko sweats. Why is everyone looking at him? He’s never been one for strategy. 

“Prince Zuko?”

“Yes, yes.” Zuko grinds his molars together. There’s no good option for him here. He wants the Avatar—he  _ needs _ to capture it—but the thought of everything that it’s done sends a cool chill down his spine. How can he face the Avatar when he’s got a gap like this in his memory?

But, more importantly, how can he not?

After everything the Avatar’s done, Zuko can’t let it get away. Not again. He swallows and hardens his face. “We go for it, once we’re restocked. Begin plotting a course; we’ll retrace its path and question villagers along the way.” 

“Are you certain, Your Highness?” asks Yami. “Even in your state?”

Zuko scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing—nothing.”

“Good.”

“We can leave tomorrow if you desire, but the day after will give us time to repair minor damage. The last attack left us all worse off.”

“Fine. The day after tomorrow, we set off at dawn.”

The men all nod along. 

“And what of the prisoners?”

Zuko frowns. “They’re a bargaining chip.”  _ Even if the Avatar doesn’t care, the Water Tribe might want their men back.  _ “Even if they don’t have any useful information.”

“That’s true,” Toru agrees, “but I suspect the younger one has information, the way that he’s close to the Avatar.”

“It’s a little difficult to conduct an interrogation when he’s unconscious,” Zuko shoots back. Honestly, did they think he hadn’t thought of that?

Toru’s eyes widen and his mouth parts slightly. “You didn’t hear? Earlier this morning, the younger one finally came to.”

* * *

The Water Tribe boy looks nothing like Zuko remembers and exactly the same all at once. His shoulders are broad, his jawline is wide, a dark tattoo sprawls across his shoulder, and, despite the fact he’s sitting, Zuko can tell he must be at least as tall as his father.

In spite of it all, his hair is still in the same style, with the sides shave and the top pulled back. He still has wide eyes and a whalebone necklace against the muscles of his neck. His face, though sunken in with deep bags under his eyes, still holds a spark. 

The sight of it all stirs something in Zuko’s chest, something he can’t put a name to. The boy’s—man’s, now—face makes Zuko’s inner flame flare and flicker. It’s not right. 

And it’s especially not right the way the two men are staring at him. The Avatar’s friend, more than his father, has something akin to pity in his eyes. His eyes, which are the colour of the ocean in the spring with long lashes on top of it all. 

_ No.  _ Zuko crosses his arms and narrows his gaze. “So you’re alive.”

“Apparently.”

“If you’d died, we would’ve lost valuable information.”

“Zuko,” he says, his voice cracking, “what did they do to you?”

“ _ Prince  _ Zuko.” He doesn’t bother to answer the question. “Where is the Avatar?”

The man shoots a look at his father, who only shakes his head. 

“I told you.” 

“Zuko. Do you remember me?” The man stands and comes closer to the bars, his face wrought with concern.

“Sokka,” Hakoda says, his voice warning. 

Zuko only looks between the two men, lost. Hakoda and Sokka. At least he has names now. And, in the new cell, he can see them more clearly through the sliver of light beaming in through the cell window. 

Here, they have a cot and more room to wander. As far as cells go, this one is nicer than many that Zuko’s seen. It’s clean enough and was probably designed to hold half a dozen men, not two. 

The prisoners should realize how good they have it. 

“Stop playing games,” Zuko says. “Where is the Avatar?”

The question doesn’t even seem to register with the man. Sokka.  _ Sokka. _ He only keeps staring with that same sad look that makes Zuko’s skin crawl. “Your hair,” he whispers. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

His hair? Instinctively, Zuko’s hand almost flies up to touch his Phoenix tail, but he stops himself before he reacts. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair,” he snaps. “Shut your mouth.” There’s something about Sokka’s voice that makes Zuko’s head sting—like trying to remember a dream.

“We’ll figure this out. I promise.” The prisoner’s hand grows white as he grips the bars. 

Zuko scowls. How dare these men? Both of them, arrogant and foolish to deny him his respect. Deep in his core, Zuko’s anger boils up. 

“Sokka,” Hakoda says gently, “maybe now is not the time.”

“Dad! You can’t mean that!”

The two enter into a conversation made entirely of looks and eyebrow movement. Which—no. Not happening. “Quit that.”

“Sorry.” Sokka turns. Now that he’s standing, Zuko realizes he is tall; tall with wide shoulders, thick muscles, slim hips and—

Zuko clears his throat and wrinkles his nose at the peasant. 

“Oh come on, I can’t be that ugly.” Humour laces his voice. 

His face burning, Zuko steps back. How dare he? His anger boils over. “You’re nothing more than a bargaining chip,” he spits. 

But when the prisoner’s face falls, Zuko doesn’t feel the cool satisfaction that he expected. If anything, he feels worse. Like the pit inside of him is sinking deeper into the ground and threatening to drag him with it, all the way to the core of Earth. 

Zuko turns on his heel, his blood thundering in his ears and his cheeks burning with heat. How had he let the conversation get away from him like that? This should’ve been easy. 

“Wait, Zuko!”

Zuko slams the door shut without another word and turns to the officer sitting on the bench outside the door, his nose deep in a book. 

“Separate them,” Zuko orders and storms off once more. 

Even the ocean breeze does nothing to soothe his anger. The birds chirp and the waves crash; soft tropical flowers fill his nose and he tastes salt on the tip of his tongue when he takes a sharp breath. 

And, despite it all, Zuko burns. 

He’ll keep burning, he suspects, he’ll burn until he’s embers and smoulder until nothing is left. 

Once, Uncle taught him that all life begins as ash at sunrise and returns to ash when the sun sinks at the end of the day. 

Zuko hadn’t understood it at the time. Not really. But now he does, he thinks. All the parts of him are ashes, poorly shaped as a person. It’ll only take a strong gust of wind to scatter him across the ocean and that will be the end of it and he does not fear this. 

After all, he feels more himself as pieces than he does as a whole. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon typical violence and just... not a great emotional time for Zuko (or anyone)

The day passes in a chaotic blur. An officer fixes the minor damage on the ship, crewmen pick fruit and cast nets for fish to top up their supplies, and Zuko reviews the maps once more. 

The thought of going for the Avatar… a heavy weight pulls down Zuko’s gut. He throws down the map and stands, stretching his tight muscles. He shouldn’t feel this way; he should feel nothing but the fire of determination burning in his core. 

More than anything, Zuko wants someone to tell him that he can make it through this, though he barely admits that, even to himself. Children need reassurance—men do not. And certainly not princes. Everything Zuko could need, he has within himself. A prince needs no one. Not truly. 

He might seek advice, from time to time. Or the comfort of a woman. But a prince shouldn’t need anyone, especially not for things as trivial as feelings. 

Zuko grits his teeth and drops the maps on the desk. The sun is sinking fast, the way that it always seems to in the tropics, but he’s wound tightly still, like a coil. There’s too much energy pent up in his core to even think of resting. 

For now, he takes off again for the hill overlooking the island. Meditating at dusk didn’t bring the same energy as meditating in the morning, but it might clear his head enough for him to sleep through the night. 

When Zuko reaches the top of the hill, sweat clinging to his brow from the humid heat, he realizes he’s not alone. No—someone else sits in the clearing, overlooking the ocean and the beach and the sunset. 

Lieutenant Sano’s face is set in a blank mask. His hands rest on the tops of his knees and he breathes in and out in a slow and steady rhythm. 

Zuko frowns. Meditating near someone else (someone that isn’t Uncle) rarely works for him. He’s too aware of himself, like that. Too aware of his skin and his breath and his thoughts. 

But he’s hiked up twice today and he doesn’t want it to be for nothing. He finds a place of dry ground on the other side of the knoll, the side that looks straight down to the plunge of the sea. He just starts to settle into the position and close his eyes when he hears Sano stir. 

“Prince Zuko,” he says, “forgive me, Your Highness. I didn’t realize you were here.” 

Zuko waves him off. “I just need some peace.”

“I understand well.” A knowing smile curls on his lips. 

Zuko eyes him. He doesn’t know this man, even though he should by all measures. Maybe he should make an effort. “So,” he says, his words feeling stiff and forced. “You mediate?” 

“Of course, Highness.”

“Not many on the ship do,” Zuko says, matter-of-fact. 

“Ah, but those men are fools,” Sano says. “A clear head and connection to one’s inner flame is an essential pillar of firebending.”

Quiet, Zuko nods in agreement. There’s something about Sano’s words that make his mind prickle. It sounds like something Uncle would say, he realizes. Bile crawls up the back of his throat. “Wise,” he says. “You’re spiritual, then?”

“My older brother practically raised me,” Sano says. “He’s a Fire Sage. I suppose some of it rubbed off on me.”

“Oh?” Zuko tries to remember what he knows about the Fire Sages. They’re reclusive and knowledgeable and, if he’s correct, a bit like a cult. Mostly, he wishes that he could remember more about all of it and what they stood for. As a child, when he didn’t pay attention to his tutor’s cultural history lessons, he didn’t think it would ever land him here.

“Yeah,” Sano says. “For a moment, I considered joining the sages, too. But my place is her, Highness.” 

Zuko shifts under his gaze. “Um, thank you, Lieutenant Sano. Your service is appreciated.”

“Of course.” He bows. “I’ll leave you be. But if you ever wish for someone to discuss spiritual matters with, please let me know, Your Highness.”

Zuko watches him disappear down the path to the encampment once again. Perhaps he could ask Sano his questions, or at least run his plans past the older man. That might not be so bad. Out of everyone, it seems that he’s Zuko’s best option. 

Zuko blinks and shakes his head and pushes away his thoughts once more. He breathes in deeply, and the heat of the air dances like a campfire in his lungs. 

* * *

After his mediation, Zuko fell asleep quickly in his small room. The dreams did not come for him. 

But, while the moon outside is high, a knock jerks him awake. 

Zuko snaps up and looks around, his room a labyrinth of shadows. “Who’s there?” he calls. 

No one answers. 

Over the years, Zuko’s gotten good at quickly leaving sleep behind and tonight's no exception. He throws back his covers and gets to his feet. His bare soles pad lightly against the wood as he turns—the bright moon lets in a glimmer through the window, but it’s not enough. He calls a flame up in his palm for both light and a steady defence. 

Outside his door, floorboards creak once more. 

Zuko steadies his stance. “Show yourself!” Where were his guards? There should’ve been at least one keeping watch, but no one has sounded any alarm bells yet. 

Of course, no one shows themself. 

Zuko’s heartbeat quickens. With his free hand, he unlatches the lock and wraps his hand on the handle. 

_ Okay. _ He takes a breath.  _ Three. Two. One. _

He yanks open the door, flame ablaze, ready to strike down whoever waits—

But there’s no one there. 

Zuko drops his defensive stance, but the blood rush still pounds in his head. He steps over the threshold of his door and glances down the length of the hallway. Nothing. The building is old; maybe it was the breeze against the ancient walls that caused the noise. Zuko rubs his chin. Has he really grown so paranoid? Is he imagining danger in shadows? 

Zuko shakes his head as he steps back inside, closes his door, and lowers the latch once more. He needs to get off this island and away from his ghosts. 

He shuffles across the room back toward his bed, though he doubts he’ll sleep. As he lifts up the corner of the blanket, the floorboards groan once more. Zuko whips around and—

And someone is on him. 

Strong muscles collide with him, and strong arms circle around his torso, holding him still. Panic floods Zuko’s mind; he freezes in place and braces for a blow. 

But the blow never comes. 

His attacker is… hugging him? 

“Zuko,” the man whispers, his voice teeming with joy. “You’re alright.” 

Zuko pushes through the cloud of confusion. The room might still be dark, especially since he ruined any chance of seeing in the black when he called his flame, but he can still make out what’s in front of him. 

As he squints, the realization weighs on Zuko’s chest. The other person is tall, around his height, but slender. Clad in red and orange. With a bald head. 

And arrows tattooed across his skin. 

The Avatar. 

Zuko can’t breathe. This is him. This is it. Nothing makes sense; why is it here? Did it come to finish what it started? The crew had said they were hidden, but they were clearly wrong. Why wasn’t it going for the kill? What sort of games was it trying to play with Zuko? 

“We were so worried,” the Avatar says, its voice shaky and full of emotion. “Everything happened so fast, you know.”

Zuko can’t speak. His heartbeat shakes his whole body, like an earthquake. The Avatar’s hands are still wrapped around his biceps. Underneath his fingers, Zuko feels poisoned. 

Its grey eyes sweep over Zuko and rest at his head. “Oh—oh that’s, uh, and unfortunate hairstyle. But nothing we can’t fix. We can be twins, hey Zuko?”

Zuko burns from this inside out—at his core, he’s molten. 

The Avatar’s grin falls. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Katara’s here too, she’s getting the others right now, but she can help when we get back to Appa.”

He says something, after that, but Zuko can’t make it out. His ears ring. His blood pounds. And the anger in the centre of his self boils up and breaks him free of his trance. Every inch of Zuko blazes with rage. 

“OW!” The Avatar pulls its hands back and shakes them—the tips of its fingers red and raw. “What was that for?”

Zuko doesn’t answer; he punches forward and sends a stream of fire at the Avatar. 

The Avatar is quick to react. With a wave of his hand, he smothers the flame. “Zuko?” His voice is small.

Zuko grinds his teeth together and doubles down in his onslaught. This is it, he thinks. This is his chance. His chance to go home, his chance to get revenge for Uncle, his chance to end this blight on the world. 

In the small room, the heat from Zuko’s flame blaze. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and he grunts with the effort of sending forward another lick of flame. 

The Avatar stops his attack with ease, stopping the fire at the root. It’s better than Zuko remembers—in the gap in his memory, it seems the Avatar’s picked up fire bending. And, judging by its quick hand, it had a good teacher. 

“Zuko!” The authority in his voice rattled the walls and window. Zuko’s core floods with ice. “It’s me! Stand down.”

Zuko makes the choice in a fraction of a second. He lets up. The room is still unnaturally warm, and they’re both breathing heavy. Ash smoulders on the floor. 

The Avatar steps forward. In the beam of moonlight, Zuko finally gets a clear view of its face. He looks so much like it did when it was young: round face and wide eyes. Maybe that’s not surprising, considering how young the Avatar was when Zuko first found it. The biggest change is how tall it is—it looks like it sprouted up a foot in a short span of time. 

“It’s me, okay? Whatever happened, you’re safe now.” The Avatar raises his hands, showing he won’t attack. 

Zuko nods. And counts. The Avatar steps forward, steps closer once again. Zuko swallows. His hands shake with anticipation.  _ Come on.  _ One more step…

“We’re getting you out of here,” it whispers. And steps forward once again.  _ Perfect.  _

Zuko snaps his arm forward, obviously telegraphing his movements. Like clockwork, the Avatar dodges. And, as it does, Zuko swings out his leg, kicking the Avatar’s feet out from underneath it. 

The Avatar drops to the floor. Its head collides with the wood and a sickening thud rings out, one that might’ve made Zuko flinch if he’d been less angry. 

It doesn’t open its eyes, but its chest keeps rising and falling. 

_ Good. _ Zuko lets out a breath of relief. Just as he wanted. The memories of their encounters run through his head—Zuko may have a limited recollection of the times they’ve fought, but even still, it seemed easy. Where were the glowing eyes? The streams of ice and water? It could firebend—why didn’t it attack? 

The questions gnaw at Zuko. 

But he can’t dwell. While the Avatar is out, he scrambles for rope, to bind him.  _ Katara’s here too. She’s getting the others.  _

He has to move. They’ve coordinated an attack. 

Zuko roughly ties the Avatar’s arms and legs up to the leg of the bed. It’s far from perfect, but it should hold, especially if it’s unconscious. 

Zuko has other places to be. 

He races down the stairs and bursts out into the night. Not far, sitting around a campfire, is a small group of crew members. The ones who are supposed to be the night watch. “Sound the alarm!” Zuko yells. "And send someone to my room—the Avatar is unconscious."

He’ll deal with the incompetence later. How had they missed the Avatar sneaking around? 

Zuko doesn’t wait for their response, though. He sprints forward, his lungs burning and his knees aching as his bare feet collide with the dirt. 

He reaches the jail faster than he thought possible. Fury rages through his head as he throws open the door and, down the hall, a soft voice echoes. 

Zuko doesn’t hesitate—he races forward, brandishing flame. 

As he rounds the corner, he sees a dark figure in a heap on the ground. The guard. He dips down and presses his fingers to the pulse point on the man’s neck. Unconscious, not dead. But the keys from his belt are gone.  _ Damn it.  _

Zuko rushes toward the soft noise. The cell door isn’t locked anymore; he bursts through without delay. 

The water tribe boy is still locked up. But his father and the water bender girl stand in front of it: she bends a razor-thin stream of water back and forwards against the bar while Hakoda tries keys. 

The men’s faces fall when they see him. 

Her face lights up. “Zuko! Oh good, where’s Aang?”

“Katara—” Sokka warns, but not fast enough. 

Zuko grunts and pushes his arms forward, fire blazing through the room. One burst of fire knocks the keys from Hakoda’s hand. The two men wince and duck away, Hakoda holding his arm to his chest. 

The bender pulls her water to meet the fire—both meet in a resounding hiss and steam curls up in spirals. 

“Zuko?”

“They did something to his head, Katara,” the boy explains quickly.

Zuko spins and kicks. How dare he speak for him?

The waterbender meets his moves. She’s older now too, her moves precise and sharp. She doesn’t relent as they tangle together in a familiar fight.

But it can’t go on forever. Bells of alarm ring in the distance, undoubtedly waking up the men as it breaks the quiet veil of night. Soon, they’ll come rushing over. Zuko’s mouth quirks up in a smile. Behind him, backup is on its way. They won’t last long. 

But the Water Tribe men seem to realize that too. 

“Go!” Sokka waves them on. “Get out of here—I’ll manage.”

“Sokka,” Hakoda says, his voice warning. In front of them, the bender still keeps up an onslaught of defensive moves, stopping Zuko from getting any closer. 

He yells and snarls, his heart beating in his throat. He won’t lose to them. Not again. 

“You did this once for us—it’s no different now. Go before they get here!” 

The bender and her father shoot a look at each other, both of their faces wrought with worry.

Zuko’s gut twists.  _ Just a little more _ , he urges his flame to burn brighter, to push past her dwindling water supply. The other men will be there in a moment. He can last. He has to last, if he’s worth anything as a warrior. 

With a snap of his arm, another burst of flame spurs through the room.  _ Finally. _ It catches the bender off balance; her attention wasn’t fully on him. As she twists and narrowly avoids the fire, her shield of water falls away and splashes across the floor. Her mouth parts in surprises. 

Zuko refuses to give her a chance to gather it. He squats and centers himself. The flame in his core grows. He pushes it through his chest and into the muscles of his arms and toward his hand. 

She’s not ready. There’s no water in her grip. But the surprise on her face dissolves into fury. “NO!”

Zuko pushes the stream of fire toward his fingertips. It’ll be a direct hit. He just—

His arm explodes in pain. An unnatural angle folds his elbow, directing all his fire at the floor. “ _ Fuck. _ ” Pricks of light dot the world; the pain is dizzy. 

He tries to gather himself, but his limbs aren’t his own—he’s a puppet, being jerked into submission. 

“Katara!” someone hisses. 

“Do you have a better idea!” she snaps. 

Zuko tries to move, but it’s as if his body isn’t his own. 

I’m sorry, Zuko,” her voice rattles as speaks. “I didn’t want to—I can’t let you.” 

“Dad, Katara, go!”

“Sokka! We’ll be back—I promise.”

The invisible force brings Zuko to his knees. He can’t move; the constraints are tighter than any chain. He can’t so much as twitch his muscles. White, hot rage runs through him. 

“You’ll forgive me before you’ll forgive yourself.” 

Around the edges of Zuko’s vision, the world blackens. He feels his pulse beat in every part of his body. The darkness grows and consumes the world; the commotion around him trickles away like water. 

Zuko is alone in the darkness. His throat burns. Fire razes his locked limbs. This is the end, he thinks, this is the end of it all. 

But as quickly as the attack came on, it all peels away. He lays on the floor, panting hard, as if he’d just ran up the side of a mountain. He gets back to his feet, his muscles still trembling. It’s as if every ounce of energy has been siphoned out of his body. 

“Zuko? You okay?”

Zuko glances over and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand . It felt like he'd be down for hours, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. 

From inside the cell, the Water Tribe prisoner stares at him. Vaguely, Zuko notes he looks exhausted, too. His hair hangs loose and limp. Dark bags circle his eyes. 

Zuko wipes the dirt off his pants—he’s still in his nightclothes—and looks around. It’s only the Water Tribe boy now. The others are nowhere to be seen. 

He swears under his breath. All he can hope is that the Avatar hasn’t gotten away, too. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This should have more consistent updates from now on.  
> Thank you again to the amazing guest who did fanart of the jailbreak scene on the last chapter! That was absolutely amazing.
> 
> CW: A character is drugged and kept sedated

They have the Avatar. 

The thought sits like led in Zuko’s head. 

They have the Avatar. After all this time, after years away, after scouring the world, he’s finally done it. 

He has the Avatar. 

He can go home. 

Zuko stares at the Avatar—it's slumped unconscious against the chains, head hanging forward as it rests in the corner of the room. Even with him knocked out, the guards kept its arms locked above its head and its feet shackled together. It’s necessary, Zuko thinks. _Try to bend anything like that._ Who knows what kind of harm the Avatar could bring if it so much as started to wake from the slumber. 

Lieutenant Sano swore the Avatar wouldn’t be coming around any time soon—he’d used some special blend of herbs to knock it out, a mixture made from some recipe handed down to him from his Fire Sage brother, apparently. The Fire Sages  _ are  _ knowledgeable in many ways, Zuko recalls. They knew ways to alter one’s state of being. 

But Zuko also supposes it doesn’t matter, not truly, where the blend came from as long as the Avatar isn’t coming back to cause him any problems. 

At Zuko’s side, Toru looks on in curiosity too. “We did it,” he whispers, as if he were just as shocked as Zuko. 

He might be. This isn’t a ticket home for Zuko alone. All these men must have family and friends they’ve been aching to see. Finally,  _ finally,  _ they can. 

Zuko steps forward, taking in more of the Avatar and the room. They didn’t put him in a cell—he and Lieutenant Sano agreed it was best to keep him away from the prisoner they still had—and kept him instead in an old room that must’ve once been for a healer. They’d managed to chain him up, even if they didn’t have bars around him. It wouldn’t really matter, anyway. If the Avatar came to, if it could use its arms, if it could bend, then it could also tear through walls as if they were made of thin paper. 

Zuko takes a breath.  _ This is real, _ he reminds himself. After everything the night before, he needs that thought to anchor him. Exhaustion wears at his edges and threatens to drag him down, but he refuses to give in. He can sleep once he’s got everything sorted. Then, he can pay attention to whatever aches have worked their way deep into his bones from what that Water Tribe witch did to him. 

Zuko tries not to think about that. He pushes the helplessness out of his mind. Through everything he’s been through, he’d never experienced anything like that. The feeling of his limbs moving against his will... No matter what, he’s always been able to rely on himself and himself alone. What happens when he can’t even do that? What is he, if not a bender? If not a fighter? 

As he turns the thought over in his mind, he grinds the backs of his molars together. She’ll pay for that, someday. 

There are more important things to think of at the moment. 

Like her brother, the Water Tribe boy, currently sitting in the damaged jail cell. 

Like the Avatar, a scarce few feet in front of Zuko. 

The Avatar doesn’t seem so grand in sleep. Its chest rises and falls in shallow movement. Dark bags hang under its eyes. It doesn’t stir, but its lip twitches slightly and Zuko steps back, his heartbeat picking up in a rise. 

“It’s dangerous,” Toru says. “Even asleep.”

Zuko nods. Even being here seems too much like tempting fate—what happens when the Avatar awakens? It’ll be mad, probably. Beyond furious. Even more destructive than normal. 

“When are you going to carry out the execution, Your Highness?”

Zuko draws in a sharp breath. “Execution?” 

“Yes? I’m assuming tomorrow at dawn, as tradition would dictate.” 

“I—I hadn’t planned on executing the Avatar,” Zuko says. Honestly, in all his years hunting for it, he truly hadn’t. There is a world of difference between capturing something and killing it. “Besides, I don’t believe that’s the best option. Won’t it just reincarnate?”

Toru frowns. “Of course it will, but we will have a head start this time. Much easier to keep a child under control. Much easier to teach a child to follow the glory of the Fire Nation.”

Zuko hesitates. “I’m not sure. What we’ve got now is more valuable than a hypothetical.”

“Think of the glory you’d bring the nation, Prince Zuko, if the first thing you show your nation when you step off the boat and arrive on her brilliant shore is the body of our most dangerous enemy? Think of what the people would say—think of how they’d praise you.”

A bolt of fear runs through Zuko’s heart. What if Zuko wasn’t allowed to come home? What if he was simply sent back out into the world, told to find the newest Avatar? 

“You’ll be remembered for this, Prince Zuko,” Toru says, his voice smooth. “Think of the stories they’ll tell. You’ll be nothing short of a legend for this.”

Zuko balls his hand into a fist. Would he be a legend? That line of thought holds a certain appeal. Who wouldn’t want to be remembered as the hero who saved their nation from evil?

Zuko fixes his gaze on the unconscious Avatar. Killing it would be easy. It’d take almost nothing. After all the pain and anguish the Avatar caused him, a quick death is more than it deserves. 

Except Zuko’s gut rolls at the thought of running his sword along the Avatar’s neck. Something in his core riots at that thought. The Avatar, really, can’t be more than fifteen. Unconscious as he is, there’s not much to fear. Just a blank expression across a surprisingly young-looking face. 

Zuko knows the moment the Avatar comes back to consciousness, he won’t hesitate to destroy the island. He knows the Avatar killed Uncle.

And somehow he’s too weak to want to kill it. 

_ Mercy isn’t weakness,  _ a voice at the back of Zuko’s mind whispers. He swallows thickly. If only he could believe that. 

Mercy  _ is  _ weakness, according to everything his father’s ever taught him. Perfect rule is achieved through strength. 

Right?

Zuko nods curtly at Toru. “Tomorrow at dawn.”

Toru’s face cracks into a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. The crew and I will ensure everything runs smoothly until then.” 

Zuko doesn’t answer. He’s doing the right thing. He’s following tradition. This would be what his father would want.

So why does his chest tighten at the thought of it?

* * *

The encounter with Toru and the Avatar sours Zuko’s morning. He tries to sneak in an hour of sleep to make up for the rest he missed in the chaos of the night before, but his mind won’t quiet as he lays in the cot. All he can think about is the Avatar sliding in the window the night before, the Avatar wrapping Zuko in a  _ hug  _ of all forsaken things. What was the game? Zuko has never been one for strategy, but he could still tell when pieces were moving. And pieces  _ were  _ moving. In many directions. The Avatar and his companions clearly were moving their tiles in a way that Zuko couldn’t yet fathom. Even his own crew seemed to be moving in ways that Zuko hadn’t yet caught up with. Why couldn’t he understand?

The memory of Uncle soothing him after the Agni Kai floats back to Zuko. Uncle, who coaxed him to rest more. Uncle, who stayed with him even when Zuko’s bursts of anger cleared everyone else, even the healers, away. Uncle, who helped Zuko relearn firebending from the start without ever a word of protest. 

_ Rest, Prince Zuko.  _ The phrase turns over in Zuko’s mind, warm and familiar.  _ You’ve been through a great ordeal. _

Zuko supposes he’s been through another ‘great ordeal’. A major accident and an assassination attempt within the same week. Uncle would probably insist on a week of bed rest and bring him tea and sliced fruit. 

Zuko bites his lip and turns in his blankets. Thinking of Uncle—thinking of him as  _ gone _ —feels like a part of himself is missing. He might as well be missing an arm. 

But he doesn’t have time to rest. Not now. He can’t let his crew think he’s weak, think that he’s not able to lead them. 

After some time tossing and turning like a fish, Zuko quits his attempt to sleep. He tries to eat, next, but he only manages a few bites of the sweet melon before his stomach hardens like a rock. 

He takes to walking around the island next. He might not have any specific task in mind, but he pushes through the trails with a purpose and hopes no one will bother him. Most of the crew have ignored him anyways, and it doesn’t seem like they’re in a hurry to talk to him today. When he passes the groups of his men, he does catch clips of their chatter. They’re still buzzing about the night before. The Avatar. The waterbender. The upcoming execution. 

Zuko turns and changes directions. He tries to clear his mind as he paces. The island air is like a damp blanket, smothering him. Sweat trickles down his back, under his armour. It clings to his forehead, too. Part of Zuko wishes he was young again, wishes that he could peel away his heavy layers and dive into the cool ocean. He’d spend all day bobbing in the waves, the way he did when he was five. 

But Zuko’s not five anymore; he’s too old for childish things. 

He has duties. People are counting on him. He keeps on walking around the edge of the small island—he needs his head clear and his focus sharp before he goes back to address his crew. 

At some point, Zuko turns. At some point, he follows his footsteps from the night before.

At some point, before he consciously realizes what he’s doing, Zuko finds himself outside the prison. 

He pushes inside without thinking. 

Inside, the place is still a mess: the ground is scorched, a far wall is damaged, splintered wood peppers the floor. The air still reeks of smoke. 

The guard jumps to attention and bows his head. “Prince Zuko,” he says. “What can I do, Your Highness?”

Zuko pauses. Why had he come here? “I need to talk to the prisoner. See what he knows.”

The guard hesitates. “Are you sure—”

“Are you questioning my orders?”

“Of course not, Highness. This way.” The guard leads Zuko around a corner to a different cell than the one the prisoner was in the night before. 

This cell, though technically undamaged, seems much worse than the one before. There’s no window; the whole room is engulfed in a dark shadow. It’s smaller, too, tight and cramped with only just enough room for the prisoner—Sokka, Zuko remembers—to stretch out. 

Which he is, right now. He’s curled in on himself against the far wall, resting his head on his bent arm. 

Zuko clears his throat. “Having fun,” Zuko says, looking for a rise.  _ Why do you care?  _ something nudges back. 

Slowly, Sokka sits up and turns. He doesn’t stand. He stays sitting on the floor and cocks his head. “Why do you care?”

Zuko feels his face warm. Why  _ does  _ he care? “Your family abandoned you here,” he spits back. 

The prisoner only shrugs. “They’ll be back.”

Zuko narrows his gaze. How can he act like he doesn’t care? “Do you understand what you’re facing?” 

“I do. I’m not sure you do, though. But that’s alright. We’ll figure it out.” His voice is soft and confident. 

What was it like, to go through life like that? Did he not worry every step he took was the wrong one?

“Your family can try and come back,” Zuko spits, “but we’re leaving soon. They’ll find this place empty and—”

“Yeah, sure, great,” he says, “but hey—where’s Aang. Did he leave with Katara?” 

Every word he says feels like it’s denting Zuko’s skull. Doesn’t he know how serious this is? “The Avatar is my prisoner. You’ve tried, for years, to escape me but you couldn’t run forever—”

“Fuck.” The prisoner rests his thumb against his chin. “You really have him?”

“I—yeah,” Zuko stutters.  _ What is happening? _

“ _ Shit.”  _ Sokka stands and wipes his pants. He steps forward and, like his father, sticks his head right against the bar so that it’s only inches from Zuko’s face. 

They’re the same height, Zuko realizes. Or near enough, at least. He expected him to be taller, but he can’t have more than an inch or two on Zuko. From where he’s standing, Zuko can see the sharpness in his cheekbones. He feels… warm. Zuko searches for the words, but he comes up empty. 

Something in his core urges him to reach up, to cup his cheek, to lean in towards his soft lips. 

_ No.  _ Zuko jumps back. His blood pounds in his ears.  _ Nonono.  _

“Zuko. Breathe, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. It’s okay. I know, right now, this is confusing. But we’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” 

“We’ll get through this. Just—just  _ listen _ ,” he says. His voice sounds as if it’s splintering at the edges. “This isn’t you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I—” he shakes his head— “You’re right. You don’t know me right now. But, Zuko, this isn’t right. You know that, don’t you? You  _ know  _ things aren’t adding up.” 

Zuko stands there, his heart in his throat. Could he be right? There have been so many details that haven’t meshed together. 

“You’ve just got to let me and Aang go, okay? We’ll take you to a healer. We’ll help you get your memories back. You can rest, you can see Iroh—”

“Don’t talk about Iroh.” Zuko’s mind darkens. “Don’t lie to me like that—the Avatar killed Uncle.”

The prisoner’s eyes widen and his mouth turns down at the edges. “What? No—Zuko. Iroh’s fine. We saw him in Ba Sing Se last month. He’s probably on his way to the South Pole as we speak, worried sick about—”

Zuko snaps. He reaches forward, grabbing a handful of the prisoner’s dirty tunic, and yanks him toward the bars. 

It’s not a far distance, but the prisoner’s nose meets the metal at an awkward angle. He swears and pulls back and clutches at his face and sinks to the ground.   
“Don’t lie to me,” Zuko spits. “The Avatar is going to pay for his crimes. His execution will happen at dawn tomorrow.”

“No!” Sokka’s head snaps up. Blood trickles over his hands where he’s clutching his nose. “Zuko—you can’t.”

Zuko clenches his fists. Inside, he ignites. He’s burning, the same way he’s burned his whole life. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he says. His heart isn’t in it. The words might be fueled by pure anger, as white and hot as starlight, but there’s no authority behind them. Even to himself, he sounds like a child having a tantrum. 

Around the edges of Zuko’s vision, the world starts to fade away, to fracture, to shatter and piece itself together again.

“Zuko!” Sokka calls.

Once again, Zuko’s sinking to his knees in the prison, but for a different reason this time. He presses his hand to his temple and winces—there’s no wound, not cut, no lump. But his head aches all the same. Fireworks of pain explode in his mind. 

The world swirls. 

The fireworks become real—colour bursts across the sky. And Zuko is warm, but pleasantly so, not overheated and covered in sweat and stuck to his damp underclothes. 

Underneath him are red roof tiles. He tilts his head skyward as another swirl of light whistles through the sky and fragments, exploding with a bang that sinks deep into his chest. 

A deep and musky scent, undercut with soft soap, fills Zuko’s nose. There are pebbles of warmth across the back of his hand and a head on his shoulder. “This is beautiful,” a voice says. 

Zuko wants to turn, wants to look at the source of the voice but his head doesn’t obey. His eyes stare at the night sky, the moon clotted with smoke from the fireworks and a fat cloud. “It is,” Zuko responds, but not by his own accord. “Thanks for coming with me.”

The voice laughs; the vibrations carry through Zuko’s mind. “Well, you clean up pretty good.”

Fingertips catch Zuko’s jaw and turn his head toward the voice. 

And, as quickly as it started, the whole scene burns away, curling up in the smoke of Zuko’s mind until only darkness remains. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Zuko wakes to a headache and blurry world. 

_Again._

He groans as he sits up, the blanket around his body falling away and pooling limply around his waist. 

“Just rest, Prince Zuko,” says Lieutenant Sano, who apparently is sitting by Zuko’s bedside in some strange vigil. “You collapsed without cause.”

Zuko huffs. Did he? He searches his mind for what happened. He comes up blank. Images swirl together in a meaningless painting; incomprehensible sounds echo through his mind. 

Where there…fireworks? 

Zuko shakes his head. _No._ That can’t be right—he’s on a skiff of an island. They have no luxuries like Fireworks. When he thinks harder, he hasn’t seen fireworks since he was young. Since he was in the Fire Nation. That was five years ago, now. Why would a memory like that come back now?

“Prince Zuko? Do you recall what you were doing when you collapsed?”

Zuko eyes Sano. There’s something about him, about his face, that presses at the gap in Zuko’s memory. Was he the one to find him? 

More than that—what’s the Lieutenant doing here? Why now? Why not the healer? Zuko tries to put it together ten different ways. It makes no sense. 

Why doesn’t anything make sense? His brain pulses wickedly against his skull; Zuko grits his teeth and hisses. 

“Prince Zuko, I don’t mean to press, but it’s important for your health: do you remember what you were doing when you collapsed?”

“No,” Zuko spits out. “I remember walking around the Island. Nothing more.” 

Sano nods slowly. “That was yesterday, now.”

Yesterday. Zuko turns to the window of his room. Outside, the sun is low and the sky is still streaked with the reds and pinks of dawn. But it _has_ risen already. “The Avatar,” he mumbles, more to himself than Sano. 

Sano frowns. “The execution will be carried out tomorrow at dawn instead. The timing of your collapse yesterday was unfortunate. We need you to be careful today. Take care of your health.”

Zuko rubs the sleep off of his face. He must’ve been out for hours. “If my health is so important, why are you here? Where’s the healer?” 

“Healers need to take breaks too,” Sano says. “But I can tell when I’m imposing. Breakfast will be in an hour. Rest until then, Your Highness” Without another word, he stands from the rickety wooden chair, lifts his helmet off the side table, and tucks it under his arm. 

In his bed, Zuko shifts. Fog still clouds his head. On top of everything, a heavy smell of smoke and incense lingers in the air of his room and combines with the humidity. It sits like a weight on his chest. “Wait.” Zuko sits up straighter. “Was someone firebending in here?”

Sano pauses. “No, Your Highness. No one was.”

Deep in Zuko’s core, something stirs. What had his mother once called that? It’s as if there’s a fish hook in his stomach, pulling him a certain way. “Alright,” Zuko says. “Just open a window on your way out.” 

When the door clicks shut, he drops back onto the bed with all his weight and presses his palm to his forehead. 

_Nothing makes any fucking sense._

If Zuko concentrates, if he blocks out the lingering smell and the sweat on his skin and the birds twittering outside and the lull of the ocean and the way his blankets scratch his bare arms, he can almost string something together. It’s like remembering a forgotten dream. 

Yesterday seems so close, so damn close, but still out of reach. Like grabbing at smoke. 

_Zuko. Iroh’s fine._ It’s a deep voice—the prisoner. The Water Tribe boy. 

Sokka. 

_We saw him in Ba Sing Se last month. He’s probably on his way to the South Pole as we speak._

Zuko’s eyes snap open. He scrambles out of bed, reaches for the basin of cool water, and splashes it over his face before he’s sick. Nausea rolls through him in a ragged wave. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing makes sense. 

Nothing, nothing, nothing is fair at all. 

What is he even supposed to believe?

* * *

Zuko skips breakfast with the crew altogether. His stomach is tied too tightly in a knot for him to even think about eating. Instead, he focuses on scrubbing the sweat off every inch of his skin with cool water. He washes his hair out too, before tying it back up into the phoenix tale. 

Before going out, he dons his armour. Given the fact that it’s just his crew on the island, aside from the two prisoners, he could probably skip it. The sun is blistering hot and the sea has no breeze to give today. 

Zuko isn’t taking the chance. The heavy plates hold the heat against his skin and test his already weary muscles. 

He refuses to let his crew see him as weak. He’s no scared child. Zuko needs only to get his head on straight. Where did doubt, where did insecurity ever get him in his life? No matter what the truth of everything is, he won’t get to it by freaking out in his bedroom. 

Once Zuck has it together—or, at least, together enough to fool his crew—he makes his way down to the docks. 

The crew are hard at work, repairing the last bits of the damage done after the confrontation with the Avatar back in Southern waters. Chunks of ice left the hull battered; the deck warped and pulled in strange ways. 

It’s hard to make the images in Zuko’s mind mesh together—how can the hardened ship, the best of their naval technology, be in such rough shape all because of the boy currently passed out and locked up in the healing room? 

Zuko stops himself. Not a boy—the Avatar. The one who commands the four elements. 

They’re lucky to have made it out at all. 

Zuko walks down the docks, inspecting the dent in the hull his crew has nearly smoothed out. 

“Prince Zuko!” one man says. From his place on a small platform held to the deck by ropes, he snaps to attention and the rest of the crew—those on the platform and deck—follows, leaving behind their work. Moments before, there had been an ease between them as they worked in harmony with the smooth movements of people who’ve worked alongside one another for an extended length of time. 

Now, they’re rigid. Almost nervous. 

Was Zuko really so harsh on them in the past?

“Keep working,” Zuko instructs, “don’t let me get in the way.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” says the man. Slowly, he turns back to his tools. The crewman next to him keeps looking at Zuko from over his shoulder. 

Zuko looks on, one hand over his eyes to shield the brightness of the sun, one hand behind his back. A drop of sweat trickles down from the back of his neck under his armour—he can’t stay like this forever, or he’ll drop in the heat. The last thing he needs is to collapse once again in front of his crew. 

From the men at work, Toru makes his way down the gangplank and draws up at Zuko’s side. “Your Highness,” he says, bowing. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m just checking in on my crew.” 

Toru nods along. “Of course, of course. We should be ready to set sail tomorrow, as soon as you execute the Avatar.” 

“Hm.”

“And the Water Tribe prisoner too.” Toru smiles, his thin cheeks pulling upward. 

Zuko blinks. “What?”

“Perhaps a bit harsh, but it is tradition, of course. Besides, he’s not talking. If he ever would, he would’ve already done so. No point keeping the Avatar’s companion around once the Avatar is gone.”

“Right.” Once again, Zuko feels like the world is shifting. It’s the dock, he tells himself. The old beams must be weak; he must be feeling the motion of the rolling waves. 

“Just think,” Toru says with a slight sigh, “think about how historic this victory will be for the Fire Nation. After this, the other Nations will know our might.”

“Right,” Zuko repeats. He can’t find it in his heart to put the necessary energy into his words. 

In his brain, a plan starts to spark. He has nothing to do this afternoon—leading the crew comes with more downtime than he expected. 

He could go to the prison. 

He could see the Water Tribe boy. Sokka. 

There are no words for it, for that tug in his core, that calls him there. Just a… feeling. Zuko shudders. What kind of a prince is he, letting a feeling guide his choices? 

But something stirs. Something teases his mind. Something tells him that he needs to go to that cell again. That next to Sokka is where he needs to be.

Toru glances at Zuko out of the corner of his eye. “Can I give you some advice, Your Highness?”

Zuko grinds his teeth together. A crewman has no place giving advice to a prince. 

“You’re only going to make it harder on yourself if you go back to see the prisoner, Your Highness.”

“I wasn’t,” Zuko spits. How could Toru know what he was thinking? Were his thoughts really so obvious?

“He might not have been the one to mount these attacks, but he chose to side with the Avatar. He supported that monster of his own free will—his fate is his own fault.”

“I know.” Zuko closes his eyes and lets his nose fill with the smell of the sea. “I know.”

* * *

The day passes in a blur, despite the fact that Zuko wishes it would drag out forever. Why can’t the hours stretch longer? Why do they have to slip away like sand in his fingertips? Zuko hadn’t even done anything that should’ve made the day fly past. Mostly, he wandered around Zōnglǘ Shù, checking in with different members of the crew, and tried very hard not to think about the small prison nestled in the palm trees. 

But as much as he wished the day to drag on forever, for the sun to stay high in the sky, before Zuko knows it the sun collapses into the sea and the crew starts to light the lanterns. 

“Come on,” Toru says, wide smile across his bony face, “come have some sake. The meal tonight is a feast, Prince Zuko. The last day of the Avatar’s tyranny!”

A few shouts of agreement rise up from the crew behind Toru walking the trail to the dining hall. They wear their pride openly—grins on their faces, light in their eyes, energy in their steps. One man claps another on the shoulder. 

“We could use a feast,” Toru continues. 

He’s right, Zuko supposes. The crew is all looking wiry and thin for members of the military. Even basic rations should’ve helped them keep their bulky muscles; they must have gone for long stretches with rations more fight for prisoners than fighters. 

The warm glow from the scattered lanterns along the path catches the angles of Toru’s face and the lines of the palms and ferns. Wind weaves its way through the trees, finally giving Zuko a break from the ever-present heat. Even at night, Zōnglǘ Shù is warmer than he’d like. It’s almost as if there’s another flame, another fire, blazing right below his skin. 

“Come celebrate, Prince Zuko. You’ve earned this victory.” Toru smiles and Zuko can’t help but think of a viper-cat before it strikes.

Either way, it doesn’t take long for Zuko to be seated at the head table in the dining hall, looking out at his crew, with Sano in front of him handing him a cup full of sake. 

“Enjoy it,” Sano says. 

Zuko doesn’t feel much like being told what to do. 

He takes the cup anyway and raises it before knocking it back. 

The burn in his throat feels good. 

The buzz in his head that follows feels even better. 

Between the noise, the hollars and cheers, and the weight of knowing what he must do at sunrise, Zuko drinks on. For a night, he doesn’t want to feel. He wants to let the world blur together around him and the noise to dampen and the weight to ease. Everyone else indulges in nights like these—Zuko remembers his old crew, the one the Avatar destroyed, drinking and playing music in the nights. At the time, he’d cut them off. 

What if he’d joined them? What if, for a few moments, he left his responsibilities behind?

Zuko wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve after finishing his third cup of sake. “More,” he tells Sano.

Sano lifts a greying eyebrow. “Are you certain, Prince Zuko? We all have an early morning tomorrow.”

Zuko narrows his eyes. “Weren’t you the one telling me to indulge? To enjoy?”

Sano nods curtly and pours Zuko another cup. It doesn’t escape his notice that he slides another piece of bread his way, too. “As long as you are enjoying, You Highness.” 

Zuko tries to work out what that means. 

In his mind, the gears turn. 

And stop. 

Everything is warm. 

Nothing hurts. 

Zuko wishes this moment would drag out, would stretch on forever. 

That way, dawn would never arrive.   
  


* * *

Zuko stumbles back to his room. It’s late. Very late. So late that he thinks he’ll only be able to squeeze in an hour, two max, of sleep before he’ll be up again. Before he’ll have to—

Zuko tilts his head up to the sky. Under the gauzy clouds, stars peak out. The lights catch in his eyes. In the Fire Nation, in Caldera, in the palace, he could never get a great look at the night sky. The glow from the city drowned out the softer light.

The stars are beautiful. Zuko could stare at them forever. He did once, he thinks. Once, he walked outside at midnight. Once, the cold struck his face and made the tip of his nose go numb and his ears ache. Once, he tilted himself backwards into a soft bank of snow and stared up at the night sky and the stars and watched as the spirit lights wove a pattern in their gaps. Once, someone told him a story—

Zuko’s foot catches a rock. He careens forward, into the soft dirt. His left palm scrapes against the ground and a stinging pain shoots up his arm. 

_Fuck._

Zuko pushes himself up, still slow and fuzzy. The sting of his palm lifts some of the haze. 

What had he been thinking? Zuko’s never been anyway he could see the spirit lights—they’re only visible in the poles. Even if he had seen them, it would’ve been on the ship, not in the middle of a tundra. 

Can he trust his own mind? 

Zuko turns that over and over and over again. His room isn’t far. He can worry about all this later. When he has time to focus.

For now, the thought of what the morning will bring cages in the sides of his brain. It shouldn’t be this hard. 

When he finally reaches the building he’s staying in, when he finally reaches the staircase that is infinitely taller and steeper than it was in the morning, Zuko wonders if he’s weak. 

No one else would hesitate at this. 

So why is he?

If not for the crew, would he be a traitor to the Fire Nation?

Zuko’s stomach rolls as he reaches the landing. He reaches out for his door. 

He finds it open already. 

Only by an inch, but it should’ve been locked. It should’ve stayed closed. 

Was someone in there again? Zuko lifts his hand, ready to strike if needed. There is a guard outside, if Zuko needs. And another few scattered throughout the island—the responsible handful who are still at their full potential and not dulled by a heavy meal and liquor. 

Zuko reaches forward and yanks the door open. At the same time, he springs forward. If he times it right, he’ll catch whoever is in there by surprise. Right now, he can’t afford to let the warmth of the sake in his mind slow his precision. 

“Show yourself,” he yells as he lands in the centre of the room, hands full of fire. “Surrender now and I’ll let you live!”

From a dark corner comes a dry giggle. “Nice display, but I doubt you’re getting anyone tonight. I can smell the liquor from here, Zuzu.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on the last chapter! I know this one is slow going, but school is slowing down so I should have more time to write

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, cold water splashes over Zuko’s face. This time, though, it’s not of his own choosing. 

“Azula,” he says through clenched teeth. Zuko wipes the water away from his eyes and blinks. There, in the low light of the moon, she stands with the now-empty washbasin in her hands. “What the  _ fuck. _ ”

“That sober you up?”

“I am not drunk.”

“Of course you’re not,” Azula says, sitting back down in the small chair as if she was sitting on a throne. With her mouth curved down in boredom, she inspects her nails. “I’m sure you stumbled up those stairs for fun.”

Zuko scowls and turns away, reaching for a towel. 

It’s been years since he saw his sister—or, at least, years since he remembers seeing her. Did they see each other in the in-between? With the gap in his memory, it’s hard to know. Azula doesn’t seem all too shocked to see him, though. 

“Come on, Zuzu, I didn’t come to stand around.” Idly, Azula inspects her nails. In the low gleam of light from the moon and stars, her face lights up. 

She looks older, Zuko thinks. Her face isn’t as round as it was when he left, even if she hasn’t gained much in terms of height. Her hair looks longer, too, but it’s hard to tell with it tied up.

More than anything, Azula looks… tired. 

There’s no better word for it. 

Under her eyes are dull bags; her eyes aren’t as intense as he remembers. 

“Well?” 

Zuko wipes off his face with the rough towel and swallows. Slowly, he feels like he’s coming back to himself, even if he still feels like he’s moving through a dream. When did his limbs become so heavy? “I’m fine,” he says. “But why are  _ you  _ here?.” Did she come to steal his victory?

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to see the Avatar.”

Zuko knew it. Blood pounds in his head; a bell rings in his ears. “If you think you can just come in and take credit for all my work—”

“Relax, Zuzu. I forgot how angry you were back then.”

_ What?  _ Something about the wording of that line strikes deep in his mind. The tensions that had been wound tight like a spring in his muscles uncoils. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m only here to see him. Think of it as a preview before the main event.”

Zuko humphs, but Azula shrugs. “Besides, I heard you’d been hurt. Even your thick head can’t take endless blows. Maybe I was worried about you.”

Zuko very much doubts that, but Azula is here now and, truthfully, he doesn’t know how she could undermine him even if she wanted to. His whole crew knows that the victory is his. He’ll be the one to carry out the execution. This is his moment. “Fine,” Zuko spits. “You wanna see it? Let’s go.”

Azula nods simply and follows Zuko back down the stairs (which seem just as tall as they did before). When they push outside into the night, the cool breeze wakes him up a little more. It feels real, here. There is salt and dirt and plants on the wind. This can’t be a dream; this must be real. 

“He’s in here,” Zuko says to her and gestures ahead when they start to come up on the medical centre. “Sedated, of course.”

Azula nods. As they hike up the path to the door, her breath hitches. 

“There are guards,” Zuko says. Would she really be nervous? Already, he can see one of them seated outside on a stool. 

As they come closer, Zuko squints. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but the guard looks as if he’s fallen asleep: he rests his head back, against the wall; his helmet is low over his eyes; his chest rises and falls deeply. 

He has no sword. 

“Shit,” Azula says, a moment ahead of Zuko. “Some crew.” Before Zuko can even reply, she rushes forward to the room. 

“Wait!” Zuko breaks into a sprint and follows at her heels. His lungs ache and his head throbs and his stomach churns. Each strike of his foot against the ground drains his energy. When did his legs become so heavy?

By the time he reaches Azula’s side, he’s panting and clutching his side. 

Azula stands in the doorway, her eyes wide. 

The room is a disaster—the door is splintered in the frame, various jars of ointments and powders are shattered across the floor, a stain on the far wall looks like blood splatter. It takes a moment, but his mind eventually catches up to his eyes. 

The Avatar is gone. 

_ No.  _

Zuko’s blood runs cold.  _ It can’t be.  _

He was so close—after all these years, he was so close.

“Zuko.” Azula’s hand wraps around his arm, steady. “Where is the prison.”

“The prison?”

“Zuko,” Azula repeats. Her voice rings like a bell, clear and steady. “Think.”

If the Avatar is gone, then there’s a good chance the water tribe boy is gone too. “This way,” he says and takes off into as much of a run as he can manage.

Without effort, Azula keeps up in easy strides. 

“We need to sound the alarm,” Zuko says. 

“Prison first,” Azula fires back. “Or else the prisoners will know they’ve been caught. We need to maintain the element of surprise.” 

Zuko nods curtly. Azula is right, as loathe as he is to admit it. They can’t afford to give the Avatar or the Water Tribe boy any edge. As he pushes on, he tries not to think too hard. He has a habit of tripping himself up when he does. 

As Zuko winds in between the trees, he looks out to the bay. His ship is docked there. 

Nothing else is. 

“Wait.” He stops in his tracks; Azula nearly bumps into his back in a comical fashion. “Where’s your ship?”

Azula rolls her eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? When the Avatar’s escaped?”

Zuko shakes his head and grinds his teeth together.  _ Right.  _ Not a pressing issue. 

He needs to check the prison—it’s the most pressing issue right now. They might be on an island, but that won’t stop the Avatar. The time to stop the escape is running out. 

Finally, Zuko comes up to the prison, Azula next to him. 

The guard out front is slumped on the ground, just like the one who was in front of the medical centre. 

“No.” Zuko’s heart stutters. 

Azula is the one who goes in first. The door isn’t latched shut; it swings with a soft creak. Zuko follows close behind. Their footsteps echo through the space. Another guard is sprawled out across the floor, unconscious. 

“No,” Zuko repeats. 

The cell is empty. 

The door is open. 

The prisoner is gone. 

“It can’t be.” His head thumps; his body feels distant and detached. The Avatar broke out and freed the prisoner. Just like that, he’s failed to reach his goal. Again. Zuko balls his hands into fists and tries to breathe. 

Azula brushes past him without a word. She squats down in front of the cell, looking at the lock. “It was picked,” she says after a moment. 

“What?”

“Come on, you have to see it. No one blew the door off its hinges. There’s no earth torn up, or water dripping from the ceiling.”

Anger, white and hot, crawls up Zuko’s throat. “He couldn’t have.”

“He did.”

Zuko swears. In an instant, he swirls around and lets a wave of fire stream out and curl up in the air. 

_ Wait.  _

If it was the boy who broke out first, not the Avatar, then there was still a chance they’d be on the island. Zuko was hardly skilled in healing, but the sedative that they were giving the Avatar likely hasn’t worn off yet.

They still have time.

“Azula, sound the alarm,” he orders. He’ll get every soldier on their feet, he’ll get the whole island searching for—

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“ _ Azula.  _ We still have a chance.”

Azula’s head turns and her passive, inexpressive face morphs into a frown. “I didn’t want it to come to this,” she says. 

Before Zuko can gather his senses enough to react, Azula grabs his hand and twists his arm behind his back at a painful angle. A sharp jolt of pain shoots through Zuko. “What the hell are you doing!”

“I’m sorry about this, Zuzu,” she says, almost whispering. “But you’ll thank me for this one day.”

Zuko tries to wrestle his way out, but his head is still clouded from the liquor. He telegraphs his weak movements and Azula only twists his arm further. 

She reaches into her pocket and pulls something out, presses it to her lips, and then puts it back. “Hold still for another damn minute.” 

“ _ Azula. _ In case it’s escaped your notice, we just lost the nation's number one enemy.” 

She lifts her eyebrow. “Did we?”

Before he can press her further about what she meant by that, the ground shakes. From outside, some sort of animal roars.

“Good. They’re here.”

The door bursts open.

It’s the Water Tribe girl—the one who’d manipulated him like a puppet only a few nights before. Her brown hair is pulled back into a braid; she’s dressed in all black. 

“No!” Zuko thrashes from side to side and wrenches himself free from Azula’s grip. In a smooth motion, he rolls and pops back up onto his feet, ready to strike. 

“Toph!”

An explosion rocks Zuko from behind before he gets the chance to strike. Splinters of wood fly everywhere; he hits the ground and knocks the air out of his lung. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, wincing at a pang of pain, to see a girl standing in the newly formed hole in the wall and a column of rock rising under her feet. 

Zuko twists. He raises his hands, pushing out white-hot flames without form. 

“I got him!” says the Earth Bender. Zuko doesn’t have time to work out what that means; rock climbs up his arms and locks them in place, immobile.

“Let me go,” he spits and lets the heat bubble up in his palms. But there’s nowhere for it to go; he can’t let it pour out. “I am the  _ crown prince. _ ” 

The Water Bender eyes him. “You’re really not.”

“You said they messed with his mind,” Azula says, siding with them, “but I’d forgotten how annoying he was back then.”

“Azula!” How is she siding with them? How did she join these traitors? Desperately, Zuko tries to yank his arms free from the pillar of rock. 

The earth only tightens against his skin, almost painfully so. 

“I’m sorry, Zuko,” Azula says quietly. 

“It’ll make more sense soon.” The Water Tribe girl nods along.

“They messed with your head. No one deserves that,” Azula says. A frown traces around the edges of her lips. 

“Sorry to rush the unhappy reunion,” says the Earth Bender. “But we sorta need to hurry here.” 

“Where are Sokka and Aang?”

“Your brother seems to have broken himself out,” says Azula. “And taken Aang with him.”

“Shit.” The Water Tribe girl pinches the bridge of her nose.

The Earth Bender slams one dirty foot to the ground. Her mouth turns down in a frown. “I can’t feel them—not anywhere close.”

“They must’ve gotten a boat.”

“Either way, we can’t just stand around! There’s a pair of them, coming on patrol.”

“We’ll go for now—we can search the sea from the sky.”

Zuko’s mind goes numb. Nothing makes sense. It  _ hurts. _ His head aches; dark spots dance in front of his vision. 

“Come on Zuzu, we’ll explain on the way.”

The rock around his arms shifts—it’s no longer a solid column, rooted in the earth, but instead becomes like a pair of handcuffs. Azula grabs him under his armpits and hauls him to his feet. “I don’t want to carry you, but don’t think I won’t.”

Zuko can’t fight them all, as much as he wishes they could. They’re three clearly powerful benders. Even on a good day, it wouldn’t be a fair fight, nevermind the fact that Zuko’s drunk with his arms locked together. “Where are you taking me,” he spits out.

“We’re going to the south,” the Water Bender says. “We should be able to figure out how to help you there.” 

“And why should I trust a word you say!”

“You don’t have to trust us,” she replies. Her eyes look wide. Sad, almost. “But maybe Iroh can convince you that we only want to help.”


End file.
